Chapter 63: The Viper and the Fox

Beneath the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, the Cathedral of Notre-Dame cast a massive, sprawling shadow over the earth.

Inside the Archbishop’s luxurious yet stale-smelling parlor, Gabriel Mariotte sat on a rigid, elaborately carved high-backed chair, finding its surface remarkably unyielding against his posterior.

"Damn it, when is Guibert going to replace these clumsy chairs? The sofas at Gigot's place are so much more comfortable!" The heavy scent of frankincense and myrrh in the air made him slightly dizzy, but he could only voice his complaints inwardly.

At last, the side door slid open in absolute silence. Bishop Guibert stepped slowly into the room, wearing an expression that blended profound compassion with heavy authority. His purple cassock was immaculate, and the golden crucifix upon his chest gleamed with a cold, piercing light.

He looked down at Gabriel from his position of absolute elevation.

"Monsieur Mariotte!" The Bishop's voice was low and laden with exhaustion, as though he carried the crushing burden of saving every soul in Paris. "To see you at a time like this is... truly complicated."

Gabriel stood up at once, summoning twelve layers of profound reverence and just the right measure of feigned anxiety, bowing slightly. "Your Eminence, I am truly and deeply sorry. As a devout believer and a publisher who feels a profound sense of responsibility, I felt it necessary to personally explain and clarify certain... misunderstandings that may have arisen."

"Misunderstandings?" Bishop Guibert paced slowly behind a massive oak desk, seating himself with effortless grace. He brought the tips of his fingers together to form a steeple, the corners of his mouth curling into a mocking smile.

"Monsieur Mariotte, when countless souls are being lured and corrupted by the words within *The Decadent City*, you tell me this is merely a 'misunderstanding'?"

Gabriel maintained his sincere expression. "Your Eminence, please examine the facts! I never had any such intention..." He proceeded once more to explain the differences between the "two versions" of *The Decadent City*.

Finally, he added with righteous indignation, "That little pamphlet, as I told Prefect Gigot, did not come from *The Clamor*! It is a shameless counterfeit and a malicious frame-up, the work of some underground print shops green with envy over the literary value of *The Decadent City*! What we published is a naturalistic work that has undergone rigorous censorship, with inappropriate content excised, and possessing profound social critical significance! The copyright registration with the Bureau of Books and Libraries is the absolute proof of this!"

"Proof?" Bishop Guibert let out a dry, scornful laugh. "Gabriel, we are grown men; why bother with such petty wordplay? You and I both know what the readers are frantically chasing! Those spaces left by the ellipses are filled with infinite imagination! Those deleted details can be pieced together in everyone's mind even without that little pamphlet! Even without that pamphlet, *The Decadent City* is still a novel bound for hell!"

Gabriel frowned. The reason Bishop Guibert was far more difficult to deal with than Prefect Gigot was that the Bishop had no need to entangle himself in legal technicalities; he could directly assail the moral fiber of the work.

"Your Eminence," Gabriel took a deep breath, "I understand your concerns—completely! As a father, I am equally worried about the impact of improper reading material on the youth. That is precisely why we enforced the most stringent deletions. But you know that literary creation... it needs to reflect certain social realities, even the darker facets... just as Monsieur Zola's works once sparked controversy, yet their value was ultimately proven..."

Bishop Guibert abruptly interrupted him: "Do not mention Zola! His so-called 'scientific naturalism' is in itself a blasphemy against the order of God's creation!"

A brief silence fell over the room. Gabriel knew that pure defense and literary debate were entirely useless; he had to play his real cards.

Lowering his voice even further, Gabriel adopted a tone of heart-to-heart candor. "Then, how do you suppose... this storm might be placated? I am willing to do everything in my power to cooperate with the Church... to purify the reading atmosphere of Paris."

Bishop Guibert leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically and lightly against the smooth tabletop. His voice returned to its previous even cadence. "Placate the storm? The source, Monsieur Mariotte—the key lies at the source. That true devil hiding behind the ridiculous pseudonym 'An Honest Parisian'! That chief culprit who uses his pen to blaspheme the divine and poison souls! As long as he exists for even a single day, such poisonous weeds will continue to sprout endlessly! Tell me, who is he? Where is he? Hand him over to secular law... and divine judgment!"

"Ah!" Gabriel heaved a heavy sigh, his face plastered with helplessness and distress. "Your Eminence, this is precisely what grieves me most! 'An Honest Parisian' is as slippery as an eel; he submits his manuscripts only through an anonymous drop box, and his royalties are accepted solely in cash, money orders, and bearer checks. I have never laid eyes on his true face! He is like... like a phantom in the Parisian sewers, leaving behind only these texts."

Spreading his hands with an expression of profound annoyance, Gabriel continued, "I swear to you, if I knew who he was, for the purity of Paris's souls and to appease your wrath, I would never shield him!"

Bishop Guibert emitted an ambiguous chuckle. "A phantom? Heh... Let us hope that when the emissary sent by the Holy See arrives in Paris, your silver tongue can convince him as well."

Gabriel felt his scalp tingle. He realized his miscalculation.

The reason he had dared to openly publish the expurgated edition of *The Decadent City* was, on the one hand, the increasingly lenient cultural climate in France after 1871. Although Flaubert, Zola, and the Impressionist Édouard Manet had been accused of outraging public decency one after another, not a single artist had ultimately been dragged into a courtroom over it. Works like *Madame Bovary*, *The Rougon-Macquart* series, and *The Luncheon on the Grass* were all freely circulated and sold.

On the other hand, it was due to the drastic decline in the authority of the Holy See; even the Papal States had been completely lost, let alone any capacity to interfere in the politics of sovereign nations.

From Guibert's tone, it seemed the Bishop cared very little whether Gabriel himself was dragged off to jail by the Parisian police. Instead, the Church harbored a far grander scheme capable of crushing him effortlessly.

Straightening his back, Gabriel adopted a grave tone. "Your Eminence, I have deeply reflected! Although we strictly censored the content, and although that supplemental pamphlet was an illegal counterfeit—there is no denying that the popularity of *The Decadent City* has, objectively speaking... perhaps provoked some undesirable discussions and attention. As a responsible publisher and a devout believer, I feel profoundly uneasy, and I am willing to make amends through concrete actions!"

Bishop Guibert remained expressionless, save for the fingers that stopped their rhythmic tapping against the desk. "Monsieur Mariotte, that you can recognize your responsibility and harbor a desire for repentance and restitution is very good. It shows that awe still lingers in your heart, and your conscience is not entirely extinguished."

Half an hour later, inside Bishop Guibert's office—

"May the Lord forgive your transgressions and guide your path forward, Monsieur Mariotte." Bishop Guibert stood up with a sacred smile, extending toward Gabriel his well-manicured hand, adorned with the ring symbolizing ecclesiastical authority.

Gabriel hurriedly bowed, respectfully taking the plump hand and pressing his lips to the ring. "To serve you and the cause of the 'Parisian Society for Beneficial Books' is my utmost honor!"

Watching Gabriel's retreating figure vanish through the doorway, Bishop Guibert curled his lip in disdain. "A fox!"

Meanwhile, as Gabriel stepped back out onto the streets of Paris, drawing in the air thick with the scents of horse manure and coal smoke, he spat fiercely onto the pavement. "A viper!"

According to their agreement, he was to sponsor the Parisian Society for Beneficial Books with ten thousand francs this week!

Once Bishop Guibert accepted this "ransom," he would temporarily close the door on the Church's campaign for severe accountability. As for Prefect Gigot, lacking the Bishop's sustained and powerful pressure—bolstered by an additional five thousand francs of his own contribution—the police chief would likewise ease his pursuit.

At present, *The Decadent City* was netting him at least five thousand francs a day, nearly half of which was pure profit. And as the novel spread outward beyond the borders of Paris, this figure continued to climb.

A week—just one week—would be enough to recoup the donations he had just handed over to Gigot and Guibert.

He climbed into his carriage and leaned back against the cushions, utterly exhausted.

"Sir, where to?" the coachman asked.

Gabriel did not answer immediately. Instead, he leaned half his body out of the carriage window and turned back. "Pierre, you said that when you went to the post office on Boulevard Saint-Martin, you only saw that impoverished young man and no one else?"

"Yes, sir," replied the tall, thin servant standing humbly in his designated spot at the back of the carriage.

"Very well, I understand," Gabriel muttered, pulling himself back inside. "To the newspaper office. I need to write another letter to Monsieur 'An Honest Parisian'."

*(The next chapter will be posted later; I am revamping the plot outline and rewriting it.)*